


Keep Your Enemies Closer

by oxiosa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Latin Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Captive Prince, Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of War, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxiosa/pseuds/oxiosa
Summary: Martín grits his teeth and digs his nails into the palm of his hands hard enough to bruise, a renewed wave of rage washing over him. As if kneeling in front of his most hated enemy’s Crown Prince wasn’t humiliating enough, he is to be offered as some sort of plaything to warm his bed at night.
Relationships: Argentina/Brazil (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Keep Your Enemies Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to the community Latin Hetalia and their respective creators ♥
> 
> Argentina: Martín Hernández.  
> Brazil: Luciano Da Silva.  
> Uruguay: Sebastián Artigas.

Martín is dragged inside the throne room in chains, collared and cuffed like some mangy dog. He has no other option but to trail after his captors, grit his teeth and keep his head down as they walk down towards the Imperial Throne.

Lord Francis Bonnefoy is the head of the small retinue dragging him to his doom; he opens their path with confident step, followed by the two handlers dragging Martín and a pair of Imperial Guards carrying fusils closing up their little escort. Martín stares at the back of Francis’ head, at his long shiny golden hair. He has known Francis since he was but a child, considered him a mentor, a confidant - a _friend._ Now, as they walk down the fine carpet that leads to the Empire of Brazil’s throne, Francis acts as if he doesn’t know Martín, as if he doesn’t recognise him.

The unexpected betrayal hurts deep inside Martín’s chest. He closes his eyes and takes a deep long breath through his nose. He quietly swears to bury a knife in Francis’ chest for this, and takes comfort in the sweet promise of vengeance. _Soon_ , he tells himself. For now, he will need to focus on surviving.

After all, Francis has brought him to the very den of his enemies in chains.

One lonely proud figure waits for them high up on the throne’s dais; a young man, dressed in a pristine naval uniform, looking down at them with a hint of mild curiosity. Martín knows this man, and the mere sight of him makes his blood boil in his veins with wild unrestrained anger.

Martín had the misfortune of seeing Imperial Crown Prince Luciano for the first time six years ago during the Eastern Bank War. It had been Martín's first taste of the battlefield, back when he was so very young and so very eager to prove himself to his people and to his father. As the Crown Heir of the United Provinces of the Kingdom of Argentina, Martín wore his uniform with pride, fought his nation's oldest enemy with an uncanny thirst for blood. It was an honor to defend the Eastern dukedom the Argentinean Army had reclaimed after so many years under the Brazilian Empire's illegitimate ruling. Both Crown Princes had been allowed to join the battlefield sporadically, but they had never crossed each other in the field. Only once did Martín see His Imperial Highness in the front line, just for the briefest of seconds, yet he can remember his image vividly; a young man frozen in place with a bewildered expression on his face and a blood stained sword in his hand towering over Martín’s little brother’s limp body.

“Lord Bonnefoy,” the Prince acknowledges from the dais with mirthful fondness. “Long time no see. Finally bored of Argentinean royalty?”

“Could one ever truly be, Your Imperial Highness?” Francis greets back and takes a deep elegant bow that is mimicked by the men behind him.

Martín doesn’t bow, but he doesn’t get the opportunity either. One of his handlers gives a harsh pull of his chains that knocks him off his feet and Martín unceremoniously falls on his knees, lower than anyone else in the room.

As if on cue, Francis takes a step to the side so there is nothing and no one between the Crown Prince and Martín’s kneeling figure.

“We came bearing gifts, sir,” he announces brightly.

Martín keeps his head low, hides his face behind a curtain of dark blond hair. This small act of surrender burns more than it should, but it is one of self-preservation. He does not know if the Prince will recognise him, and he cannot risk it.

“A slave?” the Prince asks. Martín cannot see his face, but he doesn’t sound particularly pleased.

“A bed slave, sir,” Francis explains.

Martín grits his teeth and digs his nails into the palm of his hands hard enough to bruise, a renewed wave of rage washing over him. As if kneeling in front of his most hated enemy’s Crown Prince wasn’t humiliating enough, he is to be offered as some sort of plaything to warm his bed at night.

“I am not in need of a bed slave,” the Prince answers flatly.

Martín is not surprised the Prince might take an offense on Francis’ “gift”. The Imperial Crown Prince has built quite the reputation of a hedonist who indulges and partakes in the pleasures of the flesh indiscriminately. Gossip spreads fast among bored royalty with nothing better to do, and his lascivious fame has gone as far to cross the borders and reach Buenos Aires’ aristocracy - reach Martín’s ears. A man like the Prince must think that his endless sexual conquests must be a result of his irresistible charisma and not of his position of power.

“You might change your mind when you take a closer look at him, Your Highness,” Francis goads with sweet suggestive provocation.

There is something about his voice that catches the Prince’s attention, for Martín was waiting for a second harsher dismissal and instead is faced with thoughtful silence. He tenses when he hears the Prince unhurriedly step from the dais and walk down the carpet, past Francis to stand right in front of him.

Martín swallows down his pride and anger, and forces himself to keep his head low, his eyes fixed on the Prince’s shiny shoes. There is no hiding when the Prince kneels and takes his chin between his fingers, gently guides his face up and meets his eyes.

The Imperial Crown Prince has a strikingly handsome face; up close, Martín has a privileged view of the bold arch of his cheekbones, the thickness of his eyebrows, his delectable lush lips. And his eyes - his big brown warm eyes with impossibly long dark eyelashes.

The beautiful face of a monster.

This is the man who almost killed Sebastián, who back then had been barely older than a child. Too young to be part of the battlefield, too stubborn to stay out of it, he had sneaked behind everyone’s back, had dressed in one of Martín’s uniforms and taken his sable and had joined the front. A naive boy pretending to be a grown man, too green and tender to be in real combat, and his Imperial Highness had mercilessly run his sword through him.

Just knowing these are the hands that wielded the blade that crippled Sebastián is enough to make the careful touch of the Prince’s finger on Martín’s chin burn. Martín’s stomach turns and churns with venomous anger as he grits his teeth firmly, reminding himself he gains nothing from biting one of the Prince’s fingers clean off. Instead, he bares down his silent attention with defiant scorching eyes.

“Handsome, is he not?” Francis prompts in eagerness.

“Very,” the Prince agrees bitterly, purses his lips as if that displeased him.

“A virgin too,” Francis adds, and Martín can feel a searing humiliated blush crawl up his face. “Only unspoilt goods for His Highness.”

“Inexperience should hardly be venerated,” the Prince replies with a marked hint of disapproval.

He lets go of Martín’s chin, pulls back and stands. He regards Francis from the corner of his eye as he studies Martín’s kneeling figure with his head cocked to the side like some curious bird.

“A war prisoner, I assume?” he asks casually.

War prisoner? From what war?

“Yes, sir,” Francis answers. “His people left him behind after last week’s skirmish on the Argentinean border.”

Martín tries to school his expression, does his best to keep his face neutral under the Prince’s careful scrutiny. A skirmish on the borders? There hasn’t been an armed conflict between their people since the war six years ago. Sure, the dark clouds of war have been gathering on the horizon for some weeks now with the imminent promise of a new war between Argentina and Brazil, but this is far worse than Martín expected.

“An Argentinean soldier, uh? So my bed slave has no experience in pleasing another man, but has been trained in combat. What am I supposed to make of that?” the Prince lets out a good-humoured laugh, as if the fact that Francis tried to slip a murderer into his bed was a hilarious joke and not a very serious offense.

Francis doesn’t have a right answer, but he doesn’t need one. The Prince’s attention is back on Martín, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he smiles down at him.

“Do you have a name, slave?”

_Slave_. A single word feels like a backhanded slap across Martín’s face.

Francis steps forward nervously.

“You may-”

“I asked him,” the Prince interrupts with a harsh note in his otherwise friendly tone.

He turns his attention back to Martín, and waits.

Martín knows what he must do. He needs to give him a name, _any_ name but his real one. But Martín has never been one to accept defeat. He has been stripped of his home, of his dignity, of his riches and of his titles. He has been stripped from his very life. He needs at least the smallest of things to remain true.

“Martín,” he answers without a hint of hesitation. He might have lost everything, but he will not lose himself. “My name is Martín.”

The Crown Prince’s brows rise in surprise, as if he had been expecting some other answer. It is a brief breathless second of dismay before his placid smile is back on his handsome face.

“Martín…” he repeats slowly, as if he was tasting the name. “After Argentina’s Crown Prince, I assume?”

There is a dangerous edge on the question despite the Prince’s friendly smile and bright eyes. He addresses Francis next, but his eyes don’t leave Martín as he speaks;

“I heard His Royal Highness has gone missing,” he says with a venomous amused note in his voice he fails to repress. “That his father the King sent him out to patrol the borders and he would rather abandon his country and his people to God’s will than face the possibility of combat.”

“I heard a rumour of the sort, sir, yes,” Francis says with a grim nod of his head.

“Fitting from a pampered coward, trully,” the Prince says and gives Martín a wide smile.

Martín grits his teeth with suppressed anger. His father had indeed entrusted him with a small troop of soldiers to travel to the borders and check on the rumour of looming Brazilian troops, that much is true. Martín took the task with pride, mounted off the very same day the King had given him the order. It was the very first night outside the palace that Martín’s camp was ambushed in the dark by a group of armed men. Martín’s soldiers were murdered, but Martín’s life was spared; he instead was taken prisoner, thrown in a ship and delivered to Rio de Janeiro’s royal court in chains.

Martín has to close his eyes tightly in an attempt to quell both his drumming heart and the searing hot rush of adrenaline in his veins. A coward they call him. How _dare_ they? 

“I also heard the Argentinean King is dead,” the Crown Prince’s cold voice interrupts his thoughts.

All of Martín’s anger quenches, drowns like a candle’s feeble flame in the wind. He forgets his act and snaps his head up sharply in Francis' direction, wide distraught eyes desperate for his answer. Francis wears a somber expression, but doesn’t look down, doesn’t meet Martín’s gaze.

“Yes, sir,” he nods his head again solemnly. “May His Royal Majesty’s soul rest in peace.”

_It can’t be true_ , Martín thinks as ice cold panic claws at his chest. His father can’t be _dead_ . He was strong and healthy when Martín left the palace, so full of _life_...

“So, our lovely neighbours are kingless and their coward of a prince has run away. I can only imagine the state of chaos of the royal court,” the Prince chuckles. He gives Martín a cruel smile, and his dark eyes glint with mischief. “Sounds like a real shitshow, more than usual, that is. Aren’t you happy you are here with us instead, Martín?”

The Crown Prince is smiling down at him with poorly-hidden perverse gratification. The sight of that ugly smirk is enough for a renewed wild wave of fire to take over Martín; he _needs_ to tear that smile off his face with tooth and nail if he has to. With an inhuman growl from the most profound of his being, Martín launches forward for the Prince’s neck. He has no weapons on him, but he will wrap the chains binding his wrists around the Prince’s throat, will pull until he crushes his windpipe, until life abandons his body before Martín’s very eyes and he finally wipes that goddamn smile from his hateful handsome face. The mental image of the Prince’s limp’s body under him as his blood ruins the expensive carpet Martín has been kneeling on brings a perverted sense of comfort and pleasure to Martín’s spirit.

He doesn’t get to lay not even a hand on the Crown Prince, for a harsh pull of the chain on the collar around his neck sends him back into the floor. Martín hears the familiar sound of steel being unsheathed, feels the chains restraining him tense and pulls his arms back. A ruthless hand takes a handful of his hair, pulls him up into his knees and pushes his head back to bare his neck. He feels the cold sharp edge of a blade on his throat, and waits.

The Prince hasn’t lost his smile despite Martín’s frustrated attack. If anything, he seems highly pleased with himself. He motions the man holding Martín off, and the hand on his hair and the knife of his throat are gone. The chains on his neck and hands, however, remain unbuckingly strained, anchoring Martín in place with no leeway.

The Prince steps forward and kneels again, his face merely a breath away from Martín’s snarl in daring provocation.

“Feisty, uh?” he gives Martín a condescending smile. He lowers his voice to a sweet intimate whisper, speaks with the fondness of a lover to Martín’s ears alone. “Do you want to tear my eyes out? Slice my throat open? Stab my heart out?”

_Yes._ Yes, Martín does.

“ _Child slasher_ ,” he bites out venomously.

The Prince’s smile finally banishes, and Martín rejoices in the taste of an ill-timed short-lived victory. The Prince’s snarls back at him, stands tall and bares his sword in one swift motion.

“Your Highness!” Francis pleads in alarm as the Crown Prince points his blade in Martín’s direction.

The Prince looks down at Martín with a dark dangerous expression - finally showing his true colors. Martín tilts his chin up, bares his neck for the blade. If he dies, he will do so with his head held high and looking his murderer right in the eye.

“Luciano.”

The stern voice of a woman shatters the tension of the room.

Martín has only seen paintings of this woman, and none comes even close to the overpowering presence Her Imperial Majesty the Empress consort has in the flesh. She stands tall and proud in the throne’s room entrance, her dark cunning eyes trained in the Crown Prince and the Crown Prince alone.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Francis bows hurriedly.

The Empress doesn’t even spare a glance in Francis’ and his men’s direction, much less in Martín’s. The Prince, for his part, doesn’t return her gaze and instead remains frozen with the tip of his sword pointed at Martín, his dark eyes fixed on him with a dangerous glint. Martín holds back his stare, daring and unafraid.

He ends up winning this round; the Crown Prince whispers an inaudible curse under his breath and unwillingly sheaths his sword. He faces the Empress and offers her a small bow of his head.

“You called, mother?” he asks with reluctant politeness.

“It’s your father,” the Empress says. She speaks in a confident manner that carries across the throne room without her having to raise her voice. “He’s awake.”

The Prince’s eyes widen with surprise, and all royal regalness abandons him.

“Lock the slave up,” the Prince orders and he walks away with long hurried strides. “Make sure to teach him some manners first.”

With that last command, the Crown Prince and her Imperial Majesty are gone. Martín doesn’t have time to wonder what all that was about; the guards shove him forward and slam the butt of a fusil against the back of his head.

To the Prince’s request, they beat him up right in the spot with fierce ruthlessness. There is nothing Martín can do to stop them - he is cuffed, unarmed and outnumbered. He tastes blood in his mouth, sees it dripping over his eye as his body flares with pain. The guards only stop when Francis announces with a sharp voice that that was enough.

“Your Highness said give him a lesson, not beat him to death,” he chastises harshly.

By the time the guards are done with him, Martín is paralized with pain. The men holding Martín’s chains let go of them and instead grab Martín by his arms to pull him up. It is ok - Martín doesn’t think he could have stood on his own feet on his own. They drag him away, out of the throne room and onto what from now on will be his new home - his cage.

The walk is long, and Martín lets them drag him across the Imperial Palace without so much of a fight. He is sore and weak, and couldn’t resist them even if he tried. They eventually reach their destination, open a door and unceremoniously throw him inside. Martín hits the carpet and lays on the floor as his whole body protests in pain. Two pairs of hands work on his chains, pull them away - the collar and the cuffs stay as a firm reminder of his situation. 

Not that Martín can muster to mind about that when his whole body throbs in pain.

“ _Savages_ ,” Francis spits with disapproval as he slides inside and slams the door shut.

He kneels by Martín’s side, whispers quiet nonsense to him and throws one of his arms over his shoulder. Martín clings to him, rests most of his weight on Francis as he guides him to bed. He is a little surprised to notice he hasn’t been thrown inside a dungeon - instead, they are in a rather fancy room. Of course, he thinks with bitter realization; the royal slaves might be nothing but playthings, but they are well cared for toys.

Francis helps Martín lay down and undresses him with soft careful hands. Martín grunts in pain, every inch of him tender and swollen from the beating, but lets Francis work with uncharacteristic tameness.

“Is it true?” he asks in a weak Spanish whisper.

Francis startles - perhaps he must have thought Martín had passed out.

“Is it true?” Martín repeats a little louder when he gets no response. “Is my father truly dead?”

“Yes,” Francis answers back in that heavily accented Spanish Martín used to find so very charming not so long ago. “He died a couple of days ago.”

Martín closes his eyes tightly, and one tear runs down his face.

Francis’ blue eyes glaze at him with deep sincere sadness. He pets his hair with sweet reverence, stays at his side but doesn’t try to comfort him with empty words. He only leaves the bed to retrieve the cold water and ointment a servant provides them with. He cleans the blood and sweat off Martín’s skin with a cold wet cloth and spreads the salve over his bruised flesh with gentle hands. He doesn’t comment on the endless stream of quiet tears running down Martín’s face, as if they both have agreed in a silent pact to pretend he hasn’t noticed them.

Once Francis is done treating him and Martín’s bruises feel strangely cold and numb, he cups Martín’s face and cleans his tears with a gentle stroke of his thumb.

“I’m very sorry, my dear,” he says, and despite everything that has transpired, he sounds honest. “I do wish you the best of lucks.”

He leans forward and kisses Martín’s forehead very much as he did when Martín was a small silly child eager for his attention.

“Be strong,” Francis whispers quietly. “Be clever.”

Then he is gone and Martín is left alone to mourn in pain and misery.

The sun is setting and painting the room in dark shades of purple and pink by the time Martín’s eyes are dry and he has run out of tears to shed. Princes don’t really get to mourn for long, and he doesn’t have the luxury to spare any more thoughts on his father. Martín has his country and his people to think of. They need him, now more than ever with the threat of imminent war against the Empire of Brazil.

Martín forces himself to sit up, and grunts in pain as every muscle in his body protests. He stands, moving slow and careful, and limps towards the closest mirror to check the extent of the damage they had inflicted upon him. He stares at his naked reflection, and holds back a gasp when he carefuly runs a hand down the big splashes of a worryingly dark purple bruising against his fair skin. The worst of the damage is concentrated across his torso; his nose and temper look red and swollen, and there is a deep cut on his right eyebrow, but he notices the guards went relatively easy on his face. He realises with sudden repulsion that it is likely they might have not wanted to permanently ruin the Crown Prince’s property.

The mere thought sends a wave of equal amounts of nausea and anger down his chest, gives him a second wind that makes him clench his jaw and close his hands into tight fists. Martín needs to get back home before it is too late. For that, he will have to follow Francis’ advice; _be strong, be clever_.

After all, Martín’s very life is in the hands of his most hated enemy.

**Author's Note:**

> A little brarg fic to brighten up Caju's day, happy bday :D


End file.
